Settlement
by Ebyru
Summary: "Is this the solution you found to our problem?" Jim asks, flexing his fingers against the rope binding his hands behind the chair. He's starting to lose feeling in them. "To bring me to your flat, keep me hostage, and force me to give you the keyword to call off my snipers?" (Probably D/s undertones, and spoilers.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

_So, I was rewatching season 2 of BBC Sherlock when this prompt popped into my head: __"I want fic where sherly keeps mori hostage, so he can't tell the killers to murder all his friends. And in return, he submits to Moriarty's every whim."_ _Which is why it's slightly __**dubcon**__. But, if anyone wants me to continue this - and get to the parts where Sherlock realizes he actually enjoys it - then__ let me know__._ _Sorry, this is __un-beta'd__; feel free to point out any mistakes._

* * *

He turned around for just a second, and Sherlock had a chloroform cloth pressed to Moriarty's mouth.

The rest was easy enough after that.

Sometimes the most brutish solutions are the best, Sherlock decides. Or perhaps he must resort to Neanderthal behaviour in order to surprise Moriarty's wit. Moriarty taught Sherlock that not everything needs to be clever; he's absolutely right.

XXXX

Jim awakes to the sound of violin music, non-threatening and beautiful. He's heard it before, he realizes, when he visited a certain consulting detective. It seems Sherlock finally decided to stop trying to make everything so complicated.

"Is this the solution you found to our problem?" Jim asks, flexing his fingers against the rope binding his hands behind the chair. He's starting to lose feeling in them. "To bring me to your flat, keep me hostage, and force me to give you the keyword to call off my snipers?"

Sherlock stops playing for a moment, glances over at Jim, and then continues to play Bach where he had stopped on their previous visit. "No."

"No?" Moriarty asks, voice rising along with his eyebrows. "Then what? Torture me with your rendition of dead composers? Wait for my arms to lose circulation then cut them off? Perhaps hope that John finds me so he can get his hands dirty instead? I know how violent the kind doctor can become when your safety is involved."

Sherlock gives a tight smile, turning toward Jim to continue playing the piece. He pauses to say, "None of those things, Moriarty."

"Oh, _please_, Sherlock. Now that you've knocked me out and tied me up, I think you can call me_ Jim_." He grins, rotating his ankles where they're each tied to one leg of the wooden chair. Sherlock was efficient, he'll give him that.

"Oh! Do you have a bomb under the chair that will blow up unless I call off my men? Goody!" he exclaims, clapping his hands awkwardly behind the chair.

Sherlock finishes playing before finally sitting on the living room table, across from where Jim is bound. He puts the violin down next to his feet. "I know you don't respond to threats or anything even remotely aggressive. I think I've found a suitable solution for you. For us both." He steeples his hands under his chin, focused solely on Jim.

"_Well_? Are you going to spit it out or should I let time run out and gleefully stand by while everyone you love is murdered?"

"Time limit, of course," Sherlock says under his breath.

He sits up straighter, not blinking even once. "I offer myself to you, to do whatever you please-" At that, Sherlock swallows, fingers tightening. "-in exchange for their safety. Just so long as you don't kill any of us."

"Wouldn't that require me to be untied?" Moriarty asks, quirking an eye. "I mean, unless you think bondage is one of my fetishes – which it isn't, but I could consider it if we switched roles." He waggles his eyebrows, grinning.

"I will release you, yes,_ if_, and only if, you agree to the terms," Sherlock explains, eyes darting to the front door. John might be home soon; they should find somewhere else to have this conversation. Besides, depending on what Jim wants to do to Sherlock, they can't stay here anyway.

"If I have absolute control over you, and that includes who you speak to and when, how you dress, what you eat, where you go, and every other aspect of your free will, then yes. We have a deal, darling." Jim smiles darkly, tongue darting out briefly to wet his lips.

"You expect me to essentially hand my life over to you? How could I know that my friends are safe if you never allow me to see them?"

Jim laughs, shaking his head. "No, silly. I _don't_ expect you to accept. I expect you to brood all prettily like you're beginning to, beat yourself up over having to choose between your wellbeing and everyone else's, and letting them all die in the end. And still ending up with me because you'll have no one else left to go to. Who else besides me and them can stand your company, Sherlock? I mean, who likes you as much as we do?"

Sherlock stands, fixing his vest nervously. He plops back down on the table after circling around it. "I thought you wanted to _burn_ me?"

"But _this_ – this is _so_ much better. Having my own genius as a pet? What more could I ask for? It's even better than having an ordinary person like John serving me and keeping me entertained. I'd much rather have someone around who can keep up with me."

Sherlock's smile is sarcastic, spiteful. Jim relishes it.

He doesn't want to give up on his friends just yet, but he doesn't want to submit to Jim either. He closes his eyes for a moment, contemplating the very worst Jim could do to him. It's pretty terrifying, if he's honest, but not nearly as upsetting as the thought of his extended family being taken away. At least if he were under Jim's command there would be a chance he could see them. There's a chance that Jim isn't going to be as controlling as he sounds.

But there's also a chance that Jim would just command Sherlock to kill his own friends instead…

"I will only agree if you do not order me or anyone else - that includes people who don't work for you, strangers, children, anyone - to kill my friends. If any harm should come to them, Mycroft will be the first to know. I will make sure he takes you apart personally."

"Ooh, that sounds like fun, but I think I'll pass." Jim chuckles, biting his bottom lip. "Trust me, Sherlock. That's all you can do, anyway. That's all we both can do. Besides, when did I ever bend the rules of the games we played?"

Sherlock knows better than to trust Jim, but for some reason he's willing to try. This is why he looked down on sentiment for so long; it brings nothing but pain in the end. "Fine. If I untie you, will you attack me?"

"_Really_? When have I ever hit you?" he tilts his head to the side, feigning innocence. "Or touched you for that matter? Though, I've really wanted to, if I'm being honest." He winks, wiggling his hips in his chair.

"I'm going to regret this for the rest of my life, aren't I?" Sherlock grumbles, already moving behind Jim to loosen the knots.

"Depends. Do you like my company? Do you like the idea of me _naked_? Do you like your friends alive and breathing?" Jim turns his head, looking up at Sherlock with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "_Well_?"

Sherlock chooses not to respond, concentrating instead on undoing the ropes. When he's done, Jim slowly wraps his fingers around Sherlock's wrist. "My place or yours?"

"John is going to return soon. He will obviously try to save me from you if he finds you here," Sherlock states dryly, trying to pull his wrist away.

Jim tightens his grip. "Then mine? You can keep living here if you want, but you'll have to come up with convincing lies to tell John. Or you can tell him the truth, and he can deal with the reality of his best friend now belonging to a consulting criminal."

"I'll go collect some things," Sherlock forces out through clenched teeth, rolling his eyes.

He rushes into his bedroom, worrying that Jim will have built a bomb by the time he returns. Instead, he finds Jim exactly where he left him: in the chair, twiddling his thumbs, and wiping out the creases in his expensive suit.

Jim stands, going to the door ahead of Sherlock. Sherlock clears his throat, squeezing around the handle of his bag. "Did I forget something?" Jim asks, taking a gun out of his pocket. "Is the safety off or something?"

Sherlock tries very hard not to flinch. He can't help but take a step back, though.

Jim looks down at the gun, then up at Sherlock. "Don't be silly, Sherly, this was going to be for me. Anyways, I should call off those snipers, shouldn't I? Deal's a deal."

"Yes, that would be gracious of you." Sherlock swallows, tensing when Jim puts the gun down on the coffee table.

The call takes all of a minute. The code word is _Sherlock_. (What is it with people using his name as passcodes?)

"Okay, sweetheart, we're off now. I'll lead the way." He reaches for Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock takes Jim's, albeit not after making the most appalled look he can muster. "Now, now. You're going to have to go through worse than this. Oh, and text John to say you'll be gone for the evening."

"It might be hard with one hand," Sherlock grits out, cutting his eyes at Jim.

There's a car waiting for them when they reach the front entrance. Jim steps inside first, and refuses to let go of Sherlock's hand. "Maybe I can type it for you, then."

Sherlock rolls his eyes again, but feels nails dig into his palm a bit. "So?" Jim asks, expression looking stormy all of a sudden. It's best not to make Jim mad; Sherlock has heard the threats he made to Irene first hand.

"I'll manage," Sherlock answers, leaning away when Jim slides closer in the back seat.

"You'll have to do better than that," Jim tells him, pressing his thigh to Sherlock's. "The only thing I despise more than people who don't have any imagination is people who don't hold up their end of a bargain."

He shifts closer, trailing his hand up Sherlock's thigh, whispering in his ear, "You should keep that in mind if you want your friends to stay alive."


	2. Unpredicted

**A/N:**

_So sorry I forgot to post the 2nd chapter; it's been written for months I think. But I haven't continued this yet because I'm stuck. Does anyone have any suggestions for where to go from here? Un-beta'd once again - sorry._

* * *

**Chapter 2: Unpredicted**

"What do you _mean_-" Sherlock grinds through his teeth, "-this was all part of your plan?"

"Oh, come off it, Sherlock. You're starting to bore me again." Jim plops down onto his sofa, gesturing for Sherlock to take a seat wherever he likes. Surprisingly, he chooses the sofa as well. The edge of it, of course.

"What I _mean_ is I have you exactly where I want you. And, before you ask, no, I don't intend to force myself on you. How mind-numbingly dull." Jim looks down at his manicured nails, demonstrating just how dull it really is.

Sherlock stands abruptly, teeth bared when he turns to face Jim. "The snipers were a lie. The threats…You just knew that I'd come to that conclusion since you've displayed such animosity towards the people around me in the past."

"Very good, Sherly. Now you're back on track. Let's see if you can go for the twenty thousand dollar prize."

"I am…free to leave as I please." Sherlock narrows his eyes, watching Jim slowly light up with a smile. "And you won't harm John."

"Wouldn't dream of ending our little game that way. Go on." Jim crosses his legs, looking up expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock's mouth thins; he drops his coat off his shoulders, throwing it away carelessly. "You expect me to give myself up to you willingly. You think that you won't need to point a gun to my head to get me to enjoy it."

Jim grins. "Oh, I _know_ I won't need to ask. But that's not the best part. Tell me: what is it, Sherlock? What's the actual twist? What do you hate _more_ than relinquishing control?"

There's a flurry of ideas that come to mind. None of which Sherlock can really approve of.

Jim was meant to be rough; make Sherlock hate him (and his mind that offers up the most seductive of surprises); be distracted by what Sherlock can provide, so he could secretly escape; become violent, so Sherlock would have no choice but to kill him.

But – but Jim is being _passive_. He's sitting down in front of Sherlock, unarmed and open about his real intentions. He's letting Sherlock have the upper hand, giving him all the freedom he needs, asking for nothing …That's impossible.

Sherlock's eyes widen, his hands curling into fists. This can_not_ be it. "The rules, every ounce of power you have, everything you said you'd do to me…"

"Yes, yes, _yes_. I'm yours for the taking, sweetheart. I know how much you _love_ people throwing themselves at your feet."

Jim stands, hands folded behind his back. "But if you don't treat me like a good master should, well." He smirks, eyes wide with mischief. "Maybe John wouldn't mind taking your place. Think I should ring him up?"

Sherlock's fingers are around Jim's wrist before he even gets his mobile out of his pant pocket. "You said you wouldn't involve him."

"I did, didn't I? Sorry, Sherlock. Or do you prefer Master Holmes?" he leaves his wrist exactly where it is, eyes boring into Sherlock's while the tension slips from his shoulders.

"Don't. Call me. _That_," Sherlock snaps. Even to his own ears, the sharpness of his words could cut through thin air.

"What would you like me to call you, Master?" Jim says softly, eyes wide and too inexplicably innocent. Sherlock's blood is boiling.

"Stop it." Sherlock knows his face is twisting into a snarl; he's damn near as infuriated as he was when Jim pretended to be Rich Brooke. Ah, yes. That explains it all.

Jim found out then – when Sherlock couldn't keep his emotions from spilling out, and staining the floor like a volcano eruption – just what Sherlock _hates_ more than anything.

True to his word, Jim bows his head, voice almost pleading when he says, "I'm so sorry. What would you like me to call you?"

Sherlock's fingers are tangled in the fabric of Jim's shirt before he can stop himself; he's shaking him, wanting to throttle Jim until the sadistic bastard returns from within this useless shell of a character. Sherlock is fuming, and this is all _fuckin'_ according to Jim's plan. He knows it in his bones, and, yet, there's nothing he can do to stop his bubbling anger from overflowing.

There's blood on Sherlock's knuckles when the anger subsides enough for him to come back to himself.

"Jim; one, Sherlock; zero," Jim announces gleefully from the couch, wiping the remnants of blood from his split lip. He sighs happily, stretching out across the cushions. "Unless you want to keep hitting me, or put your pretty little fingers in more interesting places, you're free to go."

Jim waits until Sherlock is at the front entrance to add, "And I expect you back here tomorrow, whenever it's convenient of course; otherwise, John is going to be paid a friendly visit from yours truly."

Sherlock ignores the "Goodbye, Master" he hears through the door on his way down the steps.

TBC


	3. It Flows

**A/N:** the Dom/Sub undertones show up a lot more in this chapter.

**Warning for:** rough play, spanking, slash.  
Un-beta'd because I didn't want to wait any longer to post. ^_^;;

It will be 7 chapters total, probably.

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**Chapter 3: It Flows**

Jim's limbs are bound at four corners of the hotel room bed when Sherlock arrives. "Ah, I see you brought it."

Sherlock looks down at his riding crop in disgust. "Unfortunately."

Stretching as much as he can, Jim turns his face away from Sherlock. "I had an employee do this to me. I hope you understand what that will cost."

"Your dignity," Sherlock states flatly, his riding crop sliding along his fingers.

"A life, actually," Jim says sweetly. "Aren't you glad I didn't get John involved now? He'd be the one sinking slowly underwater in a treasure chest."

"I see your penchant for theatrics has only grown." Sherlock says, his entire face tugged with the force of his frown.

Sherlock is aware he won't be given permission until Jim's thoroughly satisfied with the embarrassment he's caused. But that's not what drives his crop down hard against the bare flesh of Jim's thigh with a crackle. It's the niggling thought at the back of his mind, his conscience if he were a better man, telling him that simple John will be dragged into this complexity if he does not comply.

Sherlock does not like many people - never has before the past few years – and the idea of sharing them even with the _other_ burns a hot trail up his spine. He never denied being selfish. They are _his_, and they will remain his. They cannot belong to each other as well.

The snap of the riding crop is almost as satisfying as Jim's gritted-out, fake moans. They are in no shape or form genuine, which brings a devious smile to Sherlock's lips.

"Enjoying yourself—" Sherlock smacks with the flat of leather. "—I see."

Then it becomes a competition to see who will inevitably break first: Sherlock and his hatred for being controlled or Jim and his naturally sadistic streak.

The square tip smacks down like a palm, leaving behind a mark that Jim can hide easily with pants, but the pain…Sherlock's mouth twitches up at one corner, imagining the small wince Jim will have to swallow each time he sits down. Each time he tries to threaten a minion and has to bite his tongue on the whimper of pain he'll feel once Sherlock's done with him. His breathing becomes laboured because of it, and Jim turns to watch his expression change from smug to stoic.

"I think you're enjoying it as well," he purrs, arching his back on the next strike. "And maybe I could get used to it if it stirs something in your pants."

Sherlock whacks in quick succession, making Jim's breath stutter and halt altogether. He grips the bed sheets, hips rutting a slow pace against the sheets.

"I think we've both gone somewhere we did not expect," says Sherlock, his palm connecting with the flesh just above the cleft of Jim's ass.

"Yes! Fuck, yes," he moans, pulling at the cotton beneath him with his teeth. "Again, Master."

Poised to smack, Sherlock's hand falls limp to his side. His lips curl in disgust as he takes a step back, trying to calm his breathing. "I knew you wouldn't allow me to win that easily."

"You should-" Jim hums, wiggling his hips in a display for Sherlock. "-know me better than that, darling." He cranes his neck as far as he can. "Now untie me so we can go on our way until next time."

"No," says Sherlock, taking another step back and closer to the door. "I don't believe I will. Have a maid do it." He grabs his jacket, and turns the collar up as he closes the door quietly behind him.

XXX

At one in the morning, John's phone begins vibrating. He ignores it the first few times. But once it falls off his desk, he drags himself from bed and trudges over to get it. The number is one he doesn't recognize; but it's possible he may have given out his number to a woman in a coffee shop. Usually they don't bother calling, though.

Text messages begin streaming in, and he settles on his comforter in his boxers.

_I need you to take me._

_I need you so bad, right now. I've been waiting for you._

_Please, come and punish me. I've done such naughty things._

John's eyes are bulging; his boxers beginning to feel tighter than a moment ago.

_Will you join me?_

_I promise you won't be disappointed._

The last message is an address to a club in the more…open-minded district. Most people have no choice but to pass by their on their way home or to buy groceries, but none of them – John guesses – has stared at the posters and the crimson curtains, wondering what awaits inside. And now someone has invited him; he has a reason to wander over there and ask questions. He has someone to meet, and who wants to try things with _him_.

He breathes in deeply, rubbing at his brow, before replying with 'Okay, when?'

XXX

Sherlock doesn't even wait until he's in the car to grab onto Jim's collar and tug him in close. "We had an arrangement. I would do whatever you wanted, and you would leave John out of this game."

Jim nods, eyes closed as though agreeing to something solemn. "That we did. But…maybe you shouldn't have embarrassed me in a hotel room when I didn't ask you for it. hmm? Maybe you should have remembered who you were dealing with."

A man steps out from the driver's side, pushing his coat out of the way to show Sherlock his holster. Sherlock loosens his grip, but doesn't let go completely.

Jim pushes away from Sherlock and climbs into the backseat of his limousine. "Let's talk on the way."

Sherlock considers screaming at the top of his lungs and punching the glass of the window, but the pain of the consequences don't interest him. He slides along the bench and turns his gaze away from Jim.

"Now," says Jim, reaching for one of Sherlock's hands. He pulls away, and Jim forces him. "If you want me to leave John alone, honey, you have to do something for me."

"And what would that be?" Sherlock watches Jim from the corner of his eye; he's grinning like a feral animal. "I refuse to murder anyone."

"No, don't be silly," says Jim, tapping Sherlock's hand. He leans in. "I just want you to follow me to my office, and do a little roleplaying.

"I'm not much of an actor," he lies.

Jim snorts. "Really. I have the footage from Irene's home."

XXX

As soon as they arrived, passing door after door, going to the furthest corner of the building on the highest floor to Jim's office, Sherlock knew there was no way out of this. He couldn't just storm out like he had in the hotel room; there were guards stationed at every exit and entrance. And they were all armed and ready to hurt Sherlock if necessary.

Jim closes the door after Sherlock followed him inside, and locks it. He turns with his palms flat to the door, and his hips jutting out in invitation. Sherlock rolls his eyes, dropping his coat on the back of the only chair available.

Considering this is Moriarty, crime mastermind swimming in money, his office is relatively simple. A desk with papers strewn across it; a wooden chair with a material cushion tied to it; dark blinds covering the window that takes up only a small portion of the office; and a metal filing cabinet with a combination lock.

"What is it you expect?" says Sherlock. "I haven't got all day. Lestrade has offered me a case."

"Oh, has he?" Jim slides a finger across his chin. "Must be one of mine." He claps his hands together suddenly, bouncing towards Sherlock. "Maybe he found my chest? Oh, goody. I left a note inside for you."

"Charming," deadpans Sherlock, crossing his arms. "So?"

Jim shakes off his jacket, letting it fall on the seat of the chair. He circles around Sherlock a few times, grabbing one of his palms. He turns his hand over once, twice, and then brings it up to his lips. "I want you to spank me. Across my desk."

Sherlock tenses, pulling his hand away. "But pain gives you no enjoyment."

"Oh, it does. Especially when I saw how much you liked administering it." He turns towards his desk, unbuckling his belt. "And I want you to lose yourself in this with me."

When Jim's zip slides down in the quiet of this mundane office, Sherlock has to swallow. He focuses on his breathing when the lower half of Jim's body is suddenly naked, save for the shoes on his feet.

Jim braces himself on the desk, spreading his legs apart. Sherlock can tell he's getting hard already at the knowledge of what's to come. Not the pain exactly, but the rush it gives Sherlock to have permission to touch Jim in a way no one else would be able. If his people tried, if they even see him naked, they die. Sherlock is an exception, and it makes them both very, very _happy_.

"How long would you like this to go on?" asks Sherlock, licking his dry lips.

"The spanking? Until I come. This game? As long as it keeps us both busy," he says, circling his hips. He moves back a bit, offering himself. "Whenever you're ready."

This time it's electric. The moment Sherlock locks eyes with Jim and brings his hand down, they're both holding their breath for it. And the first smack resonates like a church bell inside this tiny room; makes it hard for them to imagine they're somewhere else when the sound of skin connecting with skin is so loud and evident. Jim is writhing against nothing, his palms still planted on the desk. Sherlock doesn't wait for him to catch his breath before he slaps again, conscious of the redness he's leaving.

"Oh, god," whimpers Jim, his head bowed. "Do it again."

Sherlock complies, his palm aiming for the right cheek instead of the left. And he only does because he likes the burst of air Jim releases, not because he's forced to do this. His other hand runs soothingly down the left cheek, and he spreads them a bit to smack in between.

"Fuck," shouts Jim. "W-where did you learn this?"

He pants desperate obscenities when Sherlock punctuates his answer with more focused intent; strikes that touch the rim of entrance, down his perineum. "I acquire knowledge through observation, not experience."

There musk of sweat and arousal fills their tiny space, and drives Sherlock to strike harder, faster. He closes the distance and leans his back against Jim's, wanting to bite down on the nape of his neck.

Jim's hips move constantly as Sherlock paints him red with hits; he moans softly, but swear pours down his back (and probably his chest). Sherlock wants to feel for it, but he will get distracted if he does. He might touch other places; spread him open and puncture with his tongue, just taste the musk coating the air. Or do something intimately stupid like _kiss_ Jim.

This is a game they are playing, and Sherlock has to do his best not to forget.

Not giving him time to adjust to the burning pain of his backside, Sherlock hits over and over again; he squeezes the back of Jim's neck to force him forward when he shifts too much, and uses his right hand to swat his flesh like a fly. It moves with each touch, and he groans deep in his throat when Jim sounds like he's nearly about to sob.

"Yes, yes, come on," Jim begs. "Keep going."

"Only if you admit that I'm winning," whispers Sherlock, letting his hand fall against puffy, stinging skin once more.

Jim chokes on his next moan, and Sherlock aims lower and smacks at his balls that are pulling up to his stomach. Jim cries out, his nails digging into the sides of his desk as he releases all in one breath, splattering paperwork with come.

Sherlock slowly moves his hands away, sliding one across his ass just to be mean. And Jim flinches, curling in on himself. "Stop," he warns.

"I have," says Sherlock innocently.

Jim breathes heavy, his hair a mess covering his face. He's still holding on to the desk. "You can leave now. I'll have someone drive you."


End file.
